In the Soul s Native Air 35 



IN THE SOUL S NATIVE AIR 



Dear is the breath of the April winds, in the pines on 



the hillside, 

 Dear is the smile of the sun on the knolls where the 



ground pines creep, 

 Dear are the showers that waken the flowers to bloom 



by the rillside, 



Dear are those blossoms that answer the sun and the 

 rain from their sleep. 



Aye, when the torrents adown from the springs of the 



mountain are dashing, 

 Gleams of celestial silver illuming the hemlock s deep 



shade, 

 The spirit of God moves those waters, so vividly rushing 



and flashing, 



Even as on the great day when the firmament highly 

 was made. 



Still we behold it anew, as if God were the first time cre 

 ating, 



Nature eternally showing the pulse of continuing life ; 

 Nature forever repeating, all of her forces relating, 



Glory and beauty and honour born out of storm and of 

 strife. 



Crumble the rocks into mould, and trees spring from out 



of the ruin, 



Climb to the sunlight and sway their breathing leaves 

 in the breeze; 



